Gone

Dear Cas,

It's been seven weeks since you died and I can't believe it.

I visited your grave this morning. I know you're not there, but I held my hand to the soil anyway. It's a cold comfort, but I take what I can and try to keep on breathing, even though I can't remember why. Someone (Jo? Ellen? Jess?) had brought flowers to the gravesite, I think they were cornflowers. They remind me of your eyes. Sort of funny, since herbal medicine uses cornflowers as an eye treatment for tired eyes or shit.

I'm sitting at our favorite spot on the rocks, looking to the sea. The wind is friggin' cold, but I don't care. You loved the sea, it never stopped fascinating you. Something about its constant rolling, the never ending movement, always shifting surface and endless landscapes made you content. Now I stare at its murky planes that remind me of how your eyes were towards the end: dull, filled with pain and morphine-induced haze. I hated it. I want to remember them as they were before everything: bright, blazing pools of infinite blue, the essence and pure soul of you. I'd never met another person who had as much raw power in their eyes as you did. You were able to stare down an enraged pitbull if you wanted. It never ceased to amaze me.

The sea is endless, but it's no comparison to you.

•••••

Dear Cas,

It's been seven weeks since you died and I hate it.

I suspected for a while that something was wrong, but I never dared to ask. I know I'm a coward, but I was so scared that I was gonna lose you. Fate is a bitch because I lost you anyway. And you didn't tell before it was already too late. You were so determined to shield me from sadness and pain and doing that, you forced yourself through that sadness and pain. Why didn't you tell me? Why were you so stubborn sonofabitch that you wanted to go through that all by yourself? You were always there for me, why didn't you let me be there for you? Did you think you didn't deserve it? Was that some kind of self-induced penance for whatever sins you thought you had committed? 'Cause I'm telling you, you of all people deserved the full load of blankets, tea, and tomato-and-rice-soup. 

I was so fucking angry at you then, Cas, you have no idea. While you wasted away in that hospital, I drove happy-go-merry on my Baby on some stupid mission of infinite idiocy. Yeah, you told me you were admitted, but you said it was just a flu, nothing to worry about. You never said it was pneumonia gone FUBAR. You should have told me! I should've been there by your side. I wasn't, and I'm never gonna forgive myself for that. It drove me insane that you thought I couldn't handle your condition, that I was a baby to be protected from the real world. 

I wanted to protect you but you didn't let me. And it makes me mad and it makes me sad, and it's so fucked up. 

•••••

Dear Cas,

It's been seven weeks since you died and I don't want to admit it. 

Yesterday, I realized that I didn't remember the exact color of your eyes anymore. It hit me with such a force that I fell on my knees, head swimming and gasping for air. I used to be able to pinpoint just the right shade of blue your eyes were, you remember? We would walk in the park, and I would point you a plastic bag or some flowers or that certain patch of the sky that were your eyes. And I was always right. You used to laugh at me and call me silly, but I knew you were pleased. You always drew pleasure from such simple things, even in the end. I couldn't understand how a bunch of flowers or a cluster of clouds could make you smile, but you said that little things matter. What-the-fuck-ever, as long as it made you smile. I miss your smile.

Sometimes I turn around too quickly and I see you. Not face-to-face, but from the corner of my eye. You have that funny expression on your face, that same one you wore when you didn't understand my Star Wars references. I don't know if you are really here or if I'm going nuts, but I don't really care. I never asked if you believed in God, angels or afterlife, or whether you thought ghosts were real. I read somewhere that if the body is cremated the spirit cannot come back. You wanted to be cremated and to be sprinkled to the sea, so that's exactly what we did. Your mom was miffed when she found out—something about an empty grave being offensive. Fuck if I knew. I didn't bother telling her that I actually buried that butt-ugly tea mug of yours to your appointed gravesite, so it's not actually empty.

So, anyway... I figure it's not really you that I'm seeing. Not that I'd mind.

•••••

Dear Cas,

It's been seven weeks since you died and I miss you so much I can't breathe. 

I wanted to take you here, in the end when the doctors said there was nothing more they could do. I'm not sure if it got through to you since you weren't wholly conscious anymore. Weird for the docs to say you're off their hands, but I wasn't allowed to get you out of there. I wanted to take you to the sea 'cause that's where you said you wanted to go. Fuckers said no. So I unplugged your bed and pushed it to the balcony. You couldn't actually see the ocean from there, but I knew you could smell it. I got in bed with you, you know? I gathered you in my arms so that you could smell the ocean when you left. You were so fragile and light, and I was afraid I was gonna break you. I didn't. 

You broke me. 

Sam's worried. He thinks I'm too clingy, thinking about you every day and coming here to talk to you. He tried to book me an appointment with a shrink and I nearly hit him before running out. Not that I was running, just exiting rapidly. But, whatever. It just pisses me off that he's trying to make me stop. Stop me from coming here, from remembering you. He's got Jess and I've got no-one. He's all like 'Yeah I get you, he was my friend too. But you've got to get over it, put it behind you. It's not healthy that you're obsessing about some weird trenchcoat guy you knew for a couple of years. For Pete's sake Dean, you're over thirty, you've got to find someone to share your life with.'

But I already did. I shared my life with you. You knew me inside out, all my dirty secrets and shames, all my shortcomings and faults. You knew more of me than anyone ever, and you still wanted to be with me. You came and watched Star Wars with me over and over again, even though you didn't understand shit. You bunked on my couch and shared pie and beer with me. I've never met anyone like you and I doubt I ever will.

Sam doesn't get it: you weren't my friend. You were my everything.

•••••

Dear Cas, Castiel,

It's been seven weeks since you died, and I never told you how much I loved you. I'm sorry. But I figure you already knew.